


High

by AnnArm



Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Psychological Drama, Psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 08:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20150596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnArm/pseuds/AnnArm
Summary: Even on the day of parting shouted, cursed with tears in his eyes, not hesitating — Peter. This was the last attempt to bring Paul to pure emotions, the last chance. Paul stood quietly, hands folded on his chest, looking Peter in the eye when Peter wanted.





	High

**Author's Note:**

> Well, initially this work was written by me in Russian. and now I have translated it into English, so if you see any shortcomings in the use of the language, then write about it in the comments, it will do me good. and your opinion is very important to me. I hope you enjoy this work. at her great emphasis on raspitie topics about psychology, complexes and motives of all the actions. so I'm prepared for the fact that many people will find it strange

Scraps of phrases uttered in a temper, still burned the soul, like a red-hot metal. Even after the burns have cooled, deep scars will remain. And this is bad - it makes recall.

After five and a half weeks, Peter all the more clearly understands that he did everything right, even in retrospect, his behavior seems too aggressive, childish. But damn it, there was no other way.

Relationship lasted almost a year and a half. During this time, the group has moved from the category of “Four decorated painters” to the category “Musical group, which is gaining popularity”. During this time, relationships are usually strengthened by trust and commitment. During this time, Peter has never felt necessary, or, however strangely it may sound, his beloved. These were his longest, most desirable and most "sick" relationships in all twenty-nine years of life.

Paul has never been easy. Excluding all that bullshit with diets, shopping haunting for many hours and other things, to which Peter was more than ready. He was not ready for the fact that he was suddenly not loved. He realized that Paul does not love him, gradually and very clearly. Paul behaved coldly, even detachedly, in a sense. Previously, this inaccessibility was what Peter attracted to him, but now it was like a reminder that Peter will never be the one to whom Paul can show himself to be real. Maybe he just is not real. Maybe behind the wall of indifference just a cavity, just nothing else.

Peter always kissed him first, the first did everything that, in theory, the relationship should make both people. Given that the soul wide open, he was not from the word at all. A small number of people, in principle, “deserved” his sympathy, tenderness and sincerity. He thought that in this he and Paul are identical. He realized that he was wrong.

Even on the day of parting, he shouted, cursed with tears in his eyes, without embarrassment — he. This was the last attempt to bring Paul to pure emotions, the last chance. Paul stood calmly, folding his arms across his chest, looking Peter in the eyes when he himself wanted it.

“Say something, damn it, come on, Stanley! Why the hell are you silent?!"

Paul apologized for the time spent on himself, without even flinching at the same time. Spent time. Almost a year and a half fucking years, the first eight months of which Peter felt like the happiest man on this earth. How he, an experienced, generally not stupid person, could so deceive himself - he would never understand.

Now the tour has begun, now, just four weeks later. Amazingly, Paul didn’t feel embarrassed at all, it wasn’t a pity. He still communicated with people in his cardboard manner, gave clear recommendations to the employees, spoke about the group with journalists. What the heck? What the hell is he doing this way? Why the hell did Peter go to hard drinking for a week, drag himself into the bars, which he still hasn't completely recovered from? Wow. Is it really possible?

Yes, they definitely parted at the least appropriate time. They generally could not start this kind of relationship, playing in the same group, it was always clear. Because when a person, because of whom, a couple of days ago, he thought that it would be nice not to calculate the dose of white powder, you see him next to him constantly, then this feeling is akin to pouring vinegar on a torn knee, also at regular intervals, on schedule, you can say.

In the last tour, in a much less ambitious and loud, everything was very different. They took one number in which they fucked at night, firmly holding their mouths together, so that Jean and Ace, who had taken another number, would not hear a single moan. (The fact that the beds have the unpleasant property of beating against the walls at the slightest push, they did not betray the meaning).

Peter even remembered how he had overdone his passion, and Paul bit his hand. Peter was on top, one hand holding Paul's leg, which he threw on his shoulder, the second - covering his mouth. At one point, apparently, he pressed too hard, or did something else, - Paul did not consider it necessary to explain what his gesture meant. From surprise, Peter screamed and fell off from small single bed when Stanley already undisguised laugh. Probably that night, Jean and Ace were convinced of their relationship, because there was deathly silence at breakfast in the morning. It was legendary.

Now about any double rooms and out of the question, fortunately. At least in most of the hotels where they planned to stay, the reservation was for four rooms.

And now Mexico. Behind the three concerts in the states, a week and a half tour and a lump of wasted nerves. He did not want to go somewhere to wash his visit to South America alone, because Ace left somewhere shortly after settling, Jin - not long ago, and Paul ... Paul, Paul, Paul. Peter had no idea where Paul was. Despite the cardboard walls, Peter did not know exactly when Paul left his room, but now he was definitely not there.

Peter got dressed - not as usual, but in unsightly wide jeans and a regular shirt, having forgotten about decorations - and already went out to the hall, but at the thought that now it would be necessary to go downstairs, find a place for the evening, have a drink, understand that he is still not drunk enough to want physical contact with people, to spit on this thing and go home, he felt sick. And instead of the bar, he went to the balcony, smoking.

He looked down, puffing smoke from his nose, his head slightly thrown back. Somehow he knew Paul liked it when he did that. Cigarettes and smoke are aesthetically beautiful, so much so that the smell and causticity can be tolerated. Below, on the asphalt, a huge shapeless spot spread a puddle, which reflected the dim warm light of lanterns. From a recently came rain was cool, especially without a jacket.

Having finished his first cigarette, Peter extinguished it on an old, already rather smoked ashtray, and immediately began a new cigarette. Distracted by this, he did not notice where the two figures came to the hotel, but he could not pay attention to them. One of them is Paul. Second — some unknown, strong, tall guy.

Peter even smiled. Stunningly. It, if life did not spare him, even hear them fucking. Better to be already precisely could not. It's all just some kind of sick joke.

***

In the corridor Paul for a long time searched for the room keys in the bag, especially standing with his back to the new acquaintance. He at one point put his hand on the Paul's thigh, coming closer, and then the keys are immediately found. Paul didn't turn on the lights in the hotel room.

Kissed him for a long time now, openly and quickly. And very... Hard. He didn't like it when they do that, not very loved, but now something was needed, so he started approvingly moan in the kiss, slightly clenching his fingers t-shirt on the shoulders of one man, with whom was familiar fortunately the strength of just an hour and a half. He didn't even remember his name. This was perhaps even easier.

Nameless pushed him to the bed. Paul obediently lay down, immediately spreading his legs, one bent at the knee. The most submissive and seductive pose. Kisses fell on the neck, then on the bare chest, and later the kisses grew into bites, bolder each time. Paul's eyes darkened.

He answered, succumbed. He knew perfectly well how to silently guide a person, make him do what he needed to do. Gracefully bending over in the back, he threw his leg over the guy's shoulder and smiled the corner of his lips when he touched the lips of the knee. No, too much tenderness.

"Can I ask you something?" Paul Asked, rising slightly to take off his t-shirt with the outline portrait of Marilyn Monroe painted on it.

" Certainly. Everything for you", replied the nameless — it's must be most obvious one that about Paul could think.

Paul put his shoulder and the other leg on

top of him, defiantly unbuckling first the belt of nameless's trousers and then the button of his jeans. He always did, it was always considered charming and very sexy.

"Do you want me to lick you? You like it. You're so sweet that I want to do it with you", without waiting for a response, whispered man to the Paul's ear.

It was hot. In the truest sense of the word hot — not in the sense of excitement. Paul barely squeezed out a flirty giggle.

"No, silly. I want another", Paul said, leaning back on the bed.

He ran his toes over nameless's chest, hooking his thumb over the collar of his shirt, as if to suggest that it was time to take it off. The flirt Paul was the best. It was impossible to refuse him, no matter what he asked for.

***

Peter does not turn on the TV at full volume, so that in the next room the newly-made lovers do not think about their own dirty lust, but about what Mary Tyler Moore has, or what song the participant of the next music contest poorly performs. Not locked in the bathroom, including water in the sink, shower and flush in the toilet for better self-isolation. He doesn't even go out on the balcony to finish the rest of the pack of cigarettes in one gulp. He just sits on the bed with his back against the wall and listens.

It begins slowly, almost noiselessly, but soon the head of the bed begins to hit the wall with a distinctive sound, and now he hears a quiet, noiseless moans. He didn't listen to what was before them. Those conversations. I didn't think it was necessary, because everything is so clear. He was glad he didn't understand.

But how naive he was, thinking that the moans you hear from the next room! Well, it turns out that the audience of such a stunning sound porn show almost every night a year ago became gene and Ace. They probably had a serious restraint, if they knew about it only once when everything became too obvious... Or maybe it was that behind the wall then there were just their group mates, and not once beloved people. Because in this situation, Peter wanted to take the TV and throw it out the window. Or go outside and punch someone in the face. Or go to Paul and give him in the face, and better — him and whoever is there now so diligently chugging along. He loved to fight, especially in moments of great stress. But at the same time he tried to deceive himself even in his desire to fight — because he would never raise his hand to Paul.

Peter heard a loud cry from behind the wall, and the bed began to beat against it harder and more often, and Paul's moans — he never doubted for a second that he knew who they belonged to — were not groans of pleasure, but painful moans. So shrill and some plaintive they became.

Paul never moaned like that with him. No, that's wrong. There were no circumstances under which Paul could moan like that, Peter was sure, rather knew for sure. In all their time together, Paul had never shown himself to be an intemperate man. His pleasure was quiet, fleeting, abrupt, delivered tenderness and clarity of action. He wouldn't lie about it. When the Floor well, he doesn't give these dirty, sharp sounds, as in vulgar movies.

The imagination that originally gave Peter just extremely unpleasant images, in which the Floor having sex with a man, now helpfully drew far less acceptable, even in this context of the painting.

Pain. Paul's hurt. Jealousy that initially swept Peter gave way to fear and a strange pity, but not to themselves, but to him.

If not pleasure, then masked pain. Paul was not of the number of people who fall into ecstasy from it, no, not at all. It's more of a strict rule, a taboo in their relationship. How many times, when Peter went from themselves during their quarrels: "if you Hit me — you can forget, that once we were are familiar." Peter would never have hurt him without the guidance, but Paul often repeated it in one form or another. And about the pain in sex: "you can go to a brothel if you want something harder, and I still have dignity."

Paul's confidence, however, was zero. Peter understood this, and therefore, even to conceive could not afford on something that would hurt Paul, and all these harsh statements were perceived exclusively through the prism of knowing that the Floor for some strange reason, afraid of him. No, not only him, but people in general. What was the reason for that? Maybe a bad experience in the past — Peter didn't know for sure, because Paul never told, but even a child understands that in his short life Paul most likely had such an experience. Maybe the offense at all during the school years — on the unenviable attitude of Gender ceased to be afraid of with time. Peter knew, he knew everything, despite his own fragile psyche, damaged in the same child.

Paul hated pain. He hated humiliation. He was frightened even by the thought that someone might hurt him or humiliate him or complain, because that would break him completely, that it was the beginning of the destruction of that work on himself that Paul was doing to begin to hate pain, not himself.

Peter knew that people didn't cut their hands just because they wanted to kill themselves. He knew that people sometimes put out cigarette butts on their hands not for the sake of pleasure. That moral pain is much worse than physical pain. That pain is not what it seems sometimes. And Paul, it seems, as always not has stopped on half-measures and hit aptly, clearly — on this time himself.

Peter lay back on the couch. The moans of the former lover cut the hearing more painfully than the razor blade cuts the flesh. There is something surreal, disgusting and at the same time attractive about them. So wrong and nostalgic. Not painfully, not to tears, but already before retching. Peter's stomach cramped, his breath caught.

Something moved in his head now. That paradigm about the insensitivity of Paul shifted like an iceberg that obscured the full picture of what was happening, and rapidly began to melt.

***

The next morning everything ached, not so much, but sitting still was habitually unpleasant. It reminded him once again of the first time with a man — it was much worse then, of course, but the point is that the memories were burned so that the physical pain faded into the background. Going somewhere now would definitely be torture, so Breakfast, like a couple of times before on tour, he planned to go closer to lunch. Even better: don't be the judgmental eyes of Gene, when Paul will take, except that the salad and yogurt.

So easy. Truth is easier. Nothing was filling his head. Of him if he fucked all the excess thoughts, feelings, memories. A vile way to, but how effective. Frightening in its efficiency.

During the next couple of hours, Paul reads magazines, lying on his side; during the day, he walks as quietly as possible, pressing his legs to each other, to which the others simply do not pay attention, realizing that performances for several hours on the heels are not easy and do not pass without unpleasant consequences in the form of a strange gait; during the next two days he does not even look at the fans, and after these two days he does not look at anyone but them — day, night, three, in the room, behind the scene, no matter — again two days. In the next two days doesn't want anything or anyone, because that nasty, sticky feeling of sadness, pain, anger at myself, the feeling of worthlessness returned. And then he goes to the nearest big bar, which is sure to find some man who will look at him with fire in his eyes at first, and then boldly kissing in the stall of the toilet and then — roughly take in the room Floor. Every time in this cycle he thinks he will let go, but every time he is wrong. Now it is repeated three times. How much longer would it take to get over it, to stop blaming yourself, to stop thinking that he ruined, took a year and a half of a person's life, and finally did this? How many times will it be necessary to repeat this cycle not to think

that he cannot cope even with himself, with the internal demons and complexes to live normally?

He was probably the only person with whom Peter was patient and understanding. But opening up to him was still an impossible task. Distrust broke everything. Paul knew that everything will come to an end, and he knew he was to blame himself, he knew that he needed to try to bring Peter to aggression and emotional tantrums, and tears and coldness. The tears of Peter, he will never forget, like the sinking feeling of guilt, guilt for all that have not done wrong, for every cold and distant word.

***

Peter spent his evenings outside the room. The four of them tried not to spread out separately in unfamiliar cities, especially in Europe, so if they went to the club, they always went to one or, for that matter, to different clubs in the same area. It was true and safe. It didn't always work, but in most cases it did.

Peter stayed in the room when Stanley didn't go with everyone. Remained, or came before. He thought about everything that was happening all the time and knew that if Paul was punishing himself like that, it would happen again soon. And just waited. Feeling like the last idiot on this planet, waiting for it is not clear what.

Now Peter sat in his bedroom, turning on the radio. He smoked in his bed, finding that out of the kindness of his heart, the Motel managers did not equip the rooms with working smoke detectors. From the old receiver came the sounds of music in half with interference, and at times to understand whose songs he broadcasts — Lennon, Cash or maybe Marilyn Monroe — was not possible. But Peter tired quickly, and he knocked the radio, casually pointing a finger at the shabby button.

Half an hour later, one of the doors of the rooms on this floor slammed, something noisily fell in. From the looks of it — Ace is back. Peter even managed to stab the idea is to come to him, previously he can ran to the nearest mini-market, which fortunately was just across the road to buy something alcoholic. But the laughter, coming this time from Stanley's room, quickly dispelled all thoughts of fun. Damn it, Peter knew right away. Somewhere in his chest unpleasantly pricked. It would seem that he really waited for it to happen again, but he did not count on it seriously.

He listened. Some unintelligible remarks — Paul's voice, and another voice, unfamiliar. Then the creak of the bed, which is not that someone lay down — rather someone threw. Now Peter did not let go of the thought that he was only a quarter of a meter (or, most likely, even less) from the Floor, lying on the bed. And from some man who was there with him, Yes. More than anything, he wanted not to listen to them, not to imagine, not to think, to choose each time the next room. But something did not give. An idiotic bad feeling, a feeling that something so wrong and absurd is happening under his nose that he can not let things take their course. After all, whatever Paul, he is not a stranger. That was the primary reason. Guesses and attempts to understand came later and now was the main reason that kept from being able to go somewhere or turn the radio on so loudly.

" I want you..." Strange phrase excerpt of a new person in the room, how hot you are!

Peter heard practically everything. The realization of this is not even averted, just annoying fly spinning somewhere in the subcortex.

"Can I ask?" Paul's smarmy, sweet voice and his loud, feigned, vulgar moan."Do... do Something to hurt me."

"What? Is that really what you're asking?"

"Yeah... That's what I want. Especially from you... I like it."

And Peter chokes on his own saliva because his throat is cramping, and he can't breathe in or out.

Fuck.

The realization came as suddenly as if he hadn't thought about it for the past week. He was right. Either he was right or their relationship with Paul was worthless. Nean, nothing more than he thought before. Everything was more sincere than Peter could even think, or it was all so hopeless a lie that there is nothing to regret in this relationship.

Paul's punishing himself now. Or Paul is just doing what he always wanted, skillfully playing with Peter all the troubles about pain, pride, complexes. The reason was and have moreover, and have another, but believed Peter rather in the first. No, not that. He knew he was dealing with the first option. The second was only fear, was what Peter damned feared.

He barely waited for the end of the moans, shakes, barely audible, but still distinguishable slaps, covered with pillows, but still sitting on the bed. He could have gone anywhere, but for some reason he didn't, and waited patiently for the end.

Half an hour later the door of the next room slammed shut. During this time Peter has ceased to be closed, moved to another part of the only room and began to smoke by the open window with dirty glass. For another ten minutes he just stood there and looked down into the street, thinking about what would happen if he went into that room now.

And closes the window.

The door, as he expected, was not locked, because for this Paul would need to get up. The room is dark, just falls pale cold light of the moon.

"Hi, Paul", Peter closes the door behind him.

Paul twitches on the bed, not knowing how to react to Peter's sudden appearance. Frantically trying to cover himself with a blanket.

"You... you what? What is it?" His voice trembled, and his tone was very soft, not like during quarrels or moments of seriousness.

"I just thought... I Thought I'd say you surprised me."

Peter went to the bed, sat at the foot of the Paul.

" You've been brilliantly deceiving me all this time. Damn, I just bought all these little phrases that you know my price, what if I hurt you, you'll never look in my direction", said Peter with a slight smile on his lips.

Paul squeezes the sheet with his hand, not answering. He can't believe Peter's saying that.

"You don't know what the hell you're worth, Paul. Or that's your price. To fuck the first person you meet like the last slut here, behind the wall from me. Wow. If there was a bitch Oscar, you'd get it, you fucking cheap."

Paul is not responding. Not even breathing.

"How could I believe you, Paul? I'm not such an idiot."

Peter turns to him, watching his reaction. For a zero response.

"You know what I don't really believe?" He continues after a short pause.

Paul raises his eyebrows slightly.

"This, Stanley. What I say."

In the soft glow of the moon Paul understands that looking Peter in the eye.

"I think I know you. At all offended, fearful and confused guy. A man who doesn't know what to do with who he is and what he feels. Not a heartless bitch, but a guy who's afraid to show that he has feelings, affection, fears"

When Peter's hand touches Paul's knee, Paul's eyes fill with tears. He takes not a glance, not even blinking quickly to Morgoth them. For the first time in four years, he cries. He cries for the first time with Peter — it was after these words.

"A lot of fears. You're afraid your weakness will be exploited, afraid of being hurt... Hurt. Someone other than yourself. I think that's because I understand."

Paul's hand moves forward timidly, and this is a sign of agreement. He doesn't say a word, but it's the right thing to do. Peter covers this hand with his, thumb stroking the back of his hand.

— You don't know much, neither do I. But I know you, Stanley. You don't know who you can trust, who you can't trust. It's always like this when you're young. Stanley... I see your tears. I think that's good.

And that's good.


End file.
